Chapter 9
Daniel William Mackenzie, ninth Duke of Kilmorgan, was a large man of almost solid muscle. Only Will topped him in height, and only Duncan had more breadth.
Malcolm, while tall and broad of shoulder himself, had long endured being shouted at and cuffed by this giant who had no softness in him, at least none since their mother died.
Before then, though Mal had been very young before Allison Mackenzie had gone, his father had smiled, laughed, and even played with his unruly sons. The duke had been big, strong, formidable, and frightening, but at least human.
After Allison’s death, their father had retreated deep within himself, growing harsher every passing year. Anything of compassion, love, and humor had dried up and vanished.
Now the duke lived to bully his neighbors and expect his sons to be brilliant men and make him even more prideful than he was. He was pleased with Angus, who could do no wrong in his eyes; William, who at least made a good spy; and Alec, who made a good spy’s assistant, even if he did like to waste time drawing and painting.
The duke showed vast disappointment in his eldest son, declaring that Duncan’s stubborn Jacobite sympathies would destroy the family. If Duncan were arrested and tried for treason, he would drag the rest of them down with him.
The duke also was vastly disappointed in his youngest son, Malcolm, who talked constantly of the future instead of the glories of the past. Mal spent his time thinking of ways to improve farm output, sales of whisky, and Scottish trade with England and France. Making money.
Mal was young and citified, in his father’s eyes, never mind Malcolm could hunt and fish with his bare hands and thought nothing of walking miles across country, making friends wherever he went. Mal knew the Kilmorgan lands better than any of them.
But Malcolm didn’t like to sit in the great hall at Kilmorgan Castle, quaffing ale and glorifying the days when the clan chiefs held all the power. Those times were gone, in Mal’s opinion. Scotsmen were turning to practical matters, like building better roads, better ships, discovering the wider world, and studying it and the heavens with a new understanding. The days of cattle thieving and besting the clan in the next glen were coming to an end.
The duke sat in the dining room at the head of the table with the remains of a repast spread before him. Mal’s father’s idea of a reviving snack was what most people ate in a seven-course meal.
“Good evening, Father,” Malcolm said before the duke could speak. He moved to the sideboard and sloshed a small measure of whisky into a glass. The only way to face his father was with strong drink in hand.
“Where have ye been, runt?” The duke sopped up the last of the sauce on his plate with a piece of bread, stuffed it in his mouth, and washed it down with a large draught of whisky. He drank the stuff like water. “Even Alec’s here, though I hear Will is out whoring as usual. What have ye been doing?”
The duke’s bloodshot eyes fixed on Malcolm, expecting Mal to confess he’d slipped down to Holyrood to kiss Prince Teàrlach’s pale ass.
“Talking to people,” Mal said without inflection. It never did to show fear in front of his father—he’d take it, twist it, and eat you alive. “Finding out what’s going on.”
“Your brother Duncan is here,” the duke said, bitterness in his voice.
“I saw him,” Malcolm said. “In passing. On a horse. He looked pleased wi’ himself.”
“He’s a damn great bloody fool!” The duke slapped the table, making dishes and silverware dance.
Malcolm moved back to the sideboard and fetched the whisky decanter to refill his father’s glass. “Is that why you’ve come t’ Edinburgh?” he asked. “Because of Duncan?”
The duke held out the glass and raised his eyes to Malcolm. The man hadn’t slept, that was apparent, probably not for some days.
As sometimes happened when the duke was overly weary, Mal saw something in his eyes that cried out to him, a desperation that the man thought no one could ease. The trouble was, whenever Mal tried to reach that desperation, he was unceremoniously shoved aside.
“We have to stop him,” the duke said. “Duncan. He’ll get himself killed—hanged, drawn, and quartered, the idiot. The heir of my loins, split into pieces, to my shame. Kilmorgan will be seized, and we’ll be nothing. Wouldn’t Macdonald love that?”
He meant Horace Macdonald, to whom Allison McNab had been promised long ago, before she’d run away to marry a Mackenzie. According to Angus, who knew the tale, Allison and the duke had met by chance, fallen madly in love, and eloped. The Macdonalds had never forgiven the Mackenzies for it. A romantic story, but anything romantic had been stamped out of this man now growling at the head of the table.
Malcolm sat down. His father didn’t always like his sons sitting in his presence, but tonight the duke didn’t pay much attention.
“Duncan’s got a mind of his own,” Malcolm said. “But dinnae worry. This uprising will come to nothing. The English will charge up here with a large army, and Teàrlach will rush to the nearest ship and sail back to France. I’ve seen his portrait—the prince’s. He looks the sort who likes to dress up and hear men cheer him, but in the thick of things, he’ll have no mettle.”
“You’re wrong.” More steel entered the duke’s voice. “He’s the kind of man who does nae understand the odds against him and thinks he can win by determination alone. He counts on not only the Highlanders but the Lowlanders and the English rallying to join him. Why the hell should they? He’s a dreamer, and he’ll dream us all into disaster.”
Malcolm said nothing, because he privately agreed.
“What d’ye expect us to do then?” Mal asked after his father had drunk a few more swallows. “Throw a blanket over Duncan and drag him home?”
“Aye!” The duke half climbed to his feet. “That’s exactly what ye and your good-for-nothing brothers need to do. Go out there and find him!”
“On the moment?” It was past midnight, and Mal had hoped for a little sleep at least.
“Aye, on the moment!” The duke was all the way out of his seat. “Now, ye whelp. I want Duncan here so I can rip that cockade off his hat and throw it in the fire. Trumped up, arrogant, son of a—”
His last words slurred, then cut off. The duke glanced in sudden suspicion at his whisky, then glared at Malcolm. “Ye bloody little—”
His fall slid two plates to the floor, where they broke on the carpet with a muffled clatter. The louder noise was the sound of the duke’s body hitting first the table, then the carpet.
“What the devil?” Angus rushed in, followed by Alec and Naughton. Angus gave Mal a glare worthy of the duke. “What did ye do to him?”
“I didn’t have t’ do much, did I?” Mal said. “He’s pissing drunk.”
Angus growled and demanded Naughton to help. Their father’s body was limp, unresisting, as Naughton and Angus struggled to drag the man out. Alec and Mal stepped aside, happy to let Angus take over.
Getting the duke up the stairs would be impossible, so Angus took him into a side chamber they kept set up for guests who might grow too inebriated to walk home. Now the duke would grace the room.
When the door shut, Alec, so unlike Angus in personality, turned to Malcolm. “Tell me the truth, runt. What did ye do?”
Malcolm shrugged. “I dosed him with a little laudanum. He’d have gone on for hours if I hadn’t, and he needs the sleep.”
Alec grinned. “He’ll hate you when he wakes up.”
“Ah, well. Nothing new there.”
Alec glanced at the door Angus had closed. They could hear both Angus and Naughton cursing as they heaved the duke into the small bed.
“He wants us to go fetch Duncan, does he?” Alec asked.
“That he does,” Mal said. “I have an idea how to go about it.”
Alec’s eyes were as red-rimmed as the duke’s had been, but he was far livelier. “How’s that?”
“We get Will to do it,” Malcolm said with a grin. “Then we’ll have some more drink and help find me a ship out of here.”
Alec laughed. “You’re as mad as the rest of us,” he said, but he snatched up his greatcoat and followed Mal out into the chill night.
Will was indeed with women again, as the duke had suspected. By the time they dragged him out of that brothel, and he threw off his drunken Highlander act, it turned out Will already knew where Duncan was. At Holyrood.
“Why?” Mal asked as the three of them strode through fog and mist down the hill toward the gates. “Is he intimate with yon prince now?”
“Intimate is a word that can be interpreted many ways,” Will said, sounding cheerful.
“Aye, I know,” Mal answered impatiently. “That’s why I said it. What makes you think they’ll let us in there to see him?”
“I know people,” Will said.
“Of course you do,” Alec said under his breath.
Mal gave Alec’s shoulder a squeeze. He knew why his brother was morose, but maybe Malcolm could help him in that regard. Jeremy and Audrey would be better off with an escort to France, and Mal resolved to shove Alec off with them. Mal would miss his favorite brother, but he wanted to see the man happy. Besides, Alec’s pining was getting wearying.
“So, we’re to march up to the door of the palace and knock?” Mal asked Will.
“Why not?” Will quickened his pace. “Come on—don’t straggle.”
“Duncan probably told the soldiers to shoot us on sight,” Mal said to Alec.
“Aye,” Alec agreed. “Would surprise me not a whit.”
Mal growled. “Ye sound like a bloody Englishman. Need to cure you o’ that.”
“Be quiet, runt.”
Mal fell silent as they passed the jumbled houses inside the city gates. In the old days, gates like these had been made to withstand sieges. If soldiers made it through the outer gates, they still had to pass under the gate house, where holes in the ceiling could let down flaming oil, arrows, or men with large swords.
These days, gates were quaint reminders of another time, the gatehouse a place for vendors to sell flowers and souvenirs of the city to gawping tourists.
Tonight Highland soldiers lounged about, keeping watch, staying warm the usual Scots way—wrapped in kilts and passing flasks. Many were in great kilts, plaids wrapped around their shoulders and belted at the waist, cloth to keep out the chilling mists of Edinburgh. All were armed.
Will wrapped his own flapping plaid around him and walked right into the middle of them. He’d gotten most of the way through, heading across the courtyard that fronted Holyrood, before he was stopped. A lantern flashed in his face.
“Who is that?” the sentry barked.
Will drew himself up. “Lord William Mackenzie,” he said in stentorian tones.
The sentry, a tough-looking man with wiry black hair and a once-broken nose, only glared at him. “What clan?” he demanded.
“Mackenzie of Kilmorgan.”
“Oh, aye? What are ye doing here, then?”
“I could ask you the same,” Will said easily. “We’re not here to murder his highness; we’re here to talk to me good-for-nothing brother. Kindly send word we’re out here.”
The man didn’t move. A lordling asking him to kindly do something clearly had no interest for him. Other sentries had joined him, looking as implacable as the first. Another man, younger, a lieutenant or captain by the epaulets on his coat, came up behind the sentries.
“Willie Mackenzie. Well met.”
The other man’s hand came out, and Will clasped it. “Cameron,” Will said. “Ye remember my brothers.”
“I do.” The large, red-haired man nodded at them. Mal recognized him as Stuart Cameron, a friend of Will’s. Most people in Scotland were friends of Will’s. “Come to throw in your lot with us?” Stuart asked.
“Come to have words with our brother. He in there?”
“Duncan? Oh, aye.” Stuart rolled his eyes. “Are ye going to convince him to abandon us? Please say ye are.”
“Meaning ye stand a better chance if he’s gone?” Will paused, as though considering this. “I’ll do me best. But it’s really up to him, and me father.”
“Lord help us.” Stuart wrung Will’s hand again. “We’ll get drunk when this is done, eh? The ladies in Paris are anxious to have us back.”
“Done.” Will clapped Stuart on the shoulder.
Stuart stepped back and bellowed orders at the soldiers to let them through—and not to kill them, or rob them, or fight them. The men either glowered or laughed, and parted the way for the three brothers.
Will led them through the throng, crossing the courtyard full of fires, men, ale, and the inevitable women who would make a few pence warming a soldier’s night. A small door at the side of the main gate opened for them, and Malcolm stepped inside after his brothers, into the heart of the Jacobite army.